


In the Garden

by Evandar



Series: Painless [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Family Secrets, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gimli knows little about Elves, but he knows enough about longing to know that Legolas is lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Garden

“My people were created for desire,” Gimli says. Legolas turns to look at him, but says nothing. He is up to his elbows in dirt, creating a garden for their little house in Minas Tirith. He’s doing a fine job of it, from Gimli’s uneducated point of view, but that’s perhaps because he likes to see his Elf looking less than perfect every once in a while. 

He settles himself onto the grass next to Legolas and ignores the silence hanging over them. He’s not an overly forceful partner, and while he thinks he knows what’s wrong, he needs to hear Legolas say it – if only because constantly lying to everybody is making his Elf miserable.

“We were made to long for things,” he continues, pushing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Gold; our One; the glory of the old days; a place in Arda. We have none of the last two, and guard the others fiercely when we obtain them, but we long for them all the same.” 

Legolas remains silent and Gimli sighs. “I may know little of Elves, but I know what longing looks like. You have no love for the sea, yet you let us all believe otherwise.”

“Not all Elves are called over the sea,” Legolas says after a while. “Some of us are spurned and will find no place on those white shores.”

“Why?” Gimli asks. “Were not all the Firstborn created equally beloved?”

Legolas laughs harshly. With his sharp teeth and his bitter expression, Gimli sees for a moment something within him that is far from Elvish – something he hasn’t seen since he watched Legolas push an arrowhead deeper into his shoulder without so much as a flinch. Then the moment passes and Legolas is smearing more dirt on his face as he brushes back a lock of hair.

“There were a group of Elves called the Avari,” Legolas says. “They feared the Valar and fled from them when they came to escort the Eldar to Valanor in the dawn of the First Age. They were abandoned there, scattered, and soon they came to be hunted by Morgoth and his servant. When they were caught…” he trails off and shrugs, and studies the lines of earth on his hands. “I know not whether it was an oath they swore in the dungeons of Angband or if what happened to them there caused them to be utterly forsaken, but they are.” He clears his throat. “They and all their descendants.”

It is as he thought, then. Gimli knows little of Elves, even now that he’s been named ‘Elvellon’ and seen all their kingdoms on Arda. He has known for a while now that Legolas is strange for his kind, but has enough good, Dwarven sense to love him regardless. His teeth are too sharp, and his endurance too great, and he has seen Legolas take a grievous wound and not even notice it. He has seen how Legolas shies from the company of other Elves – even to the point where he would choose a barely-tolerant Dwarf over them – and how they in turn skirt around him, as if they too can see that Legolas is something that by all rights should not exist.

He slides an arm around Legolas’ shoulders and draws his Elf down to him. Legolas’ body curls automatically into his side, and his hands rise to tangle in Gimli’s beard. Gimli presses a kiss to Legolas’ hair and tightens his grip. He thinks of all the Orcs he has slain – their sharp teeth and long hands and pointed ears – and finds little resemblance. Legolas is too much an Elf at heart. He is fair and wise and self-contradictory in the worst of ways; petty and cruel when he puts his mind to it; merry and ridiculous when he chooses to be; fierce and terrible when necessary.

He is Legolas, his dear and stalwart companion in all things; his One. Little else matters beyond that. “You don’t need to hide from me, laddie,” he murmurs. Legolas doesn’t reply; he just presses closer and makes a small noise that could be a laugh or a sigh or a million things in between.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for lynndyre in response to her comment on my Timestamp Meme, which can be found here: http://hikarievandar.livejournal.com/36142.html if you would like to request anything.


End file.
